Like Clockwork
by thefirstservant
Summary: Draco Malfoy doesn't know if he can stand another day of his pure-blood life. Written for the Speed of Lightning Competition.


A/N: Hello there! :) This was written for the Speed of Lightning Competition on HPFC. The participant is asked to write for the genre "angst" and is given five days to write a fic - at least for the second round. Enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything! :))

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><p>Draco Malfoy understood flowers.<p>

Maybe it was because he was an only child and studying flowers was a solitary game. Maybe it was because the Malfoy Manor's backyard had enough flowers to fill a dozen Quidditch pitches. Or maybe there was just something in the essence of a flower that appealed to him.

In any case, Draco Malfoy understood flowers.

…

Draco shivered as he went down the stairs leading away from the entrance hall. The December morning air was freezing, especially since he had beaten the sun up by a couple of hours.

He strolled across the empty lawn before settling down by the bank of the lake, hidden behind a row of snow-covered rosebud shrubs.

It was the quietest place in the whole yard. Draco had found the place in his first year while looking for some peace and quiet. In the spring, there were beautiful rows of blossoms all around and plenty of trees for shade. He also had a good view of the courtyard if he peered through the branches and shrub leaves.

There was no one to watch now though, as the whole yard was deserted. The Yule Ball had ended late, and everyone was still fast asleep.

He had gone to bed earlier than anyone else on the night of the Yule Ball. While everyone had either hung around the common room or the secret dungeons the Slytherins used for their own private partying, Draco had slipped out from Pansy's grasp as soon as they had gotten out of the Great Hall.

Pansy had pouted and pleaded for him to stay and join "all the fun", but Draco had feigned fatigue and had escaped to the boys' dormitory before he could lose his mind.

Draco smiled as he skated his hand across the surface of the frozen lake. He would never understand what Blaise saw in Pansy.

In spite of fervent rumors that he knew he himself only encouraged, Draco was not at all charmed by Pansy's admiring looks and coquettish behaviour. In fact, he merely tolerated her company because the Parkinsons were long-time family friends of the Malfoys due to family standing.

Draco chuckled to himself, remembering how Blaise had pleaded with him in the privacy of their dorm to go ask Pansy out before "some bloke who actually liked her did." Draco had waved him off, saying that if he was that concerned he should just ask her out himself.

Blaise was adamant, however, and Draco eventually gave in to his best friend's request, like he often did.

Thus, he had been stuck with Pansy all night, answering her tittering questions and dancing as grandly as a Malfoy should even under such tedious circumstances.

Although, honestly speaking, Pansy wasn't all that bad. She often appeared to be a spiteful airhead at times, yes, but most girls in society acted that way in public in order to give an impression that they had an edge over other girls.

But Draco knew there was a soft-hearted Pansy in there anyway, from a time before pure-blood women had to grow up and enter society to "become snooty young ladies who suffer from a lack of common sense", as Blaise had groaned into his pillow a few weeks ago.

The smile on Draco's face slipped off. At the same time as the pure-blood ladies were emptying their heads out, pure-blood men were being taught how to handle their future estates and businesses, how to keep their emotions under control, how to remain on top – no matter the cost.

His thirteenth birthday had been no picnic. Nor was the week after that.

But it was the only week in recent memory that his mother hadn't applied red lipstick to attend the latest high society gathering. It was the only week that his father hadn't given him a curt dismissal before Disapparated five minutes after breakfast, only to return at midnight past.

It had been a week of drilling, of testing, of controlled yelling (for Malfoys did not yell), and of pure-blood mantras.

How to act, how to talk, how to order, how to dress, how to best.

The lessons Draco hated were more than compensated by the company he craved.

However, the lessons were learned too quickly and the week was over in a flash.

And out came the lipstick and out came the dismisses.

And away his parents went.

Draco lay flat on his back and stared up at the still-dark sky. The snow he lay on was cold and wet, and Draco knew that, at that moment, with his hair tangled and his clothes damp, he looked nothing like a pure-blood. Much less a Malfoy.

It was a glorious feeling.

Draco felt like burying himself under all the snow around him. The weight on his shoulders would then be comforting for once.

And there was no society to live for and no expectations to live by, under the pile of snow, deep in the ground.

Then maybe spring would come and there would be flowers all around him, flowers of every color, flowers of every meaning. All around him, hiding his grayness with their bright petals, hiding his blandness with their leafy stems and pretty scent.

Draco thinks that sounds quite a bit like heaven.

He understands flowers, after all.

He doesn't love them too much, but he tends to them like clockwork every summer and charges the gardeners at home to care for them, too.

And although they don't love him as well as they do Longbottom or Professor Sprout, they still grow for him. They stand healthy and tall, under his watchful eye.

Every summer. Every year.

Like clockwork, they don't miss a summer. Like clockwork, they are there every year.

Maybe that's why he understands flowers.

Maybe that's why he takes care of them so meticulously, so gently, like he takes care of nothing else.

Maybe he understands flowers because they're the only things – the only ones that have been with him enough time for him to understand them.

Maybe because flowers are the constant in his life.

Draco thinks of his mother's red lipstick as she goes out to parties every night. Draco thinks of his father's dismissive wave as he watches him Disapparate to wherever meeting he has to attend.

Every day, every night. Every year.

Like clockwork, they miss every summer. Like clockwork, they're gone every year.

Draco looks at the white snow all around and across the frozen lake.

There is not a flower in sight.

Draco swears the water down his cheeks is only melted snow.

Nothing else.

And like clockwork, he can do nothing else but what he has been set to do.

Even as the tears – the snow – fall faster and thicker than ever.

Nothing else.

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><p>AN: I hope you enjoyed this small effort into the world of angst. :) It's my first time to write angst, and I'm not sure I did it too well, but at least there's always room for improvement! :) Reviews would be greatly, greatly appreciated, especially since I'm not too sure how I did either. :) Thank you very, very much. :) Hope to "see" you all again soon! :)


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